A Winter Night
by Maethril Aranel
Summary: A lonely king loses himself in the night, in guilt, in change, and finally in the eyes of those he loves. Vignette.


**A Winter Night**

A solitary figure emerged from doors of white stone, stepping out into a courtyard that mirrored it. Pure, unblemished white characterized the stone underfoot, the gentle coating of snow, the branches and flowers of the blooming tree and the blanket of clouds across the night sky. It streaked his hair. It touched the skin that was becoming paler with age.

But he had laid the white crown to the side.

With a nod and a few soft words, he ordered the guards inside, insisting that they partake in the wine and festivities behind the doors. They left with obvious reluctance—what true sentry left his king unguarded on a bitter night? But the command was adamant, and they left the monochromatic world, glancing back one last time at the strange, blank glory.

The king's footsteps carried him slowly forward. They hardly made any sound, because the snow was still soft and powdered, creating a soft sheen to cover the ground. He savored the ethereal reality of the moment. The biting cold made him tremble and his breath drifted on the air in the form of white wisps. He appreciated it—he appreciated the fact that the cold made him feel alive. He was an old man, after all; old and tired. At times he felt closer to his grave than to the world.

He kept walking; it was a slow, lonely procession, and at last it led him to the very edge of the expanse. Beneath the ashen sky lay the descending tiers of the city—beyond that, a world shrouded by fine white mist. Snow fell gently on his lashes, only to be blinked away as he let his eyes take in the fullness of that world, and all of the many adventures that had been laid to rest in history.

It had been many years since he had traveled far from Minas Tirith. His visits to Rohan had become very far apart since the death of King Éomer, and even the short trips to other realms in Gondor had become infrequent. There were memories there too—memories of Lord Faramir and Éowyn, who had once loved him; memories of battles and friends and triumphs. He had not seen the blossoming fields of the Shire in decades.

He kept telling himself that it was because of his age, but in truth, he could have made the journey; he still had strength. It was the process of reliving things that had been laid to rest which wearied and saddened him to the point of tears. Surely, the things he loved most were housed within these walls—his family was alive. But those memories of companionship remained invaluable. After all, no measure of love can be disregarded, and every last one of his recollections triggered an ache in his heart.

The world was a bleak place; the view tonight was a testimony to that. It was bleak and beautiful and weary.

Now his few remaining friends were bringing a piece of that world back to Gondor. The celebrations that he had organized were in their honor. It was strange; why should he feel such simple trepidation, such poignant grief? He supposed it was all part of his endless stores of guilt. He felt guilty to have lived so long after many of his dearest friends were gone; he felt guilty that after his death, many would be left behind to feel the same way about _him. _It made him feel guilty to think that his name would be remembered when others, probably more valiant than he, would pass into obscurity.

Yet it also made him feel guilty to think that he had not saved everyone, had not managed to create a perfect world in the wake of the War of the Ring. It was peaceful, yes, and content; happy, even. But there was much yet to be done.

He thought of his white hair, of the lines that were etched onto his face—lines of laughter and experience and sorrow. Legolas and Gimli had not seen him for many years; what would they think of him? Would they see their friend, the one who had stood beside them once in the deepest, darkest places of the earth? Or would they simple see an old man, ready to die?

So much guilt; so much sadness and change. Surely life would only continue to tangle them all.

He shuddered as the cold penetrated his brittle bones, and wished for rest. He looked up at the sky and closed his eyes, letting soft, icy snowflakes fall across his face.

His voice was a whisper. The gentle gusts of breath accompanied them. As he spoke, the snow made its way into his mouth, and the cold found its way down his throat to douse the warmth at the core of his body. It was painful for his lungs, even dangerous, but the words needed to be said.

"How can I have lived so long on this earth," he said almost inaudibly, "And yet still know so little?"

"You are mortal, my friend. It is through no fault of your own that you know little."

Aragorn turned, startled by the break in the silence even as all of his confused emotions intensified tenfold.

There, against the solid, radiant backdrop, stood Legolas. The usual earth-toned colors he wore created a stark, welcome contrast to the monotony of the uniform courtyard, and seemed to bring out the snow's natural luminescence where before there had been only blankness. His bright, youthful golden hair was softened by the touch of the falling flakes. The elf must have just barely arrived in Minas Tirith.

Aragorn thought he smiled; he would never remember if he did or not. Happiness and sorrow mingled in his heart. Despite his desire to welcome and embrace his friend, he could only marvel at how remarkably untouched Legolas was by the bounds of time, could only lament at the fact that Middle-Earth dwelled in a state of contradiction, where sadness weighed on the heart whether a person lived forever or died a mortal death.

Legolas did smile, however, even though his deep, bright eyes were touched with concern. He walked over to stand beside his friend. Together, they looked at out Middle-Earth, each mind bearing a different perspective on the same picture of earth and sky blending into one. It was as stately and complex as a statue carved in marble, as a painting on a bare canvas.

Aragorn looked at it and saw the mirror of his decay. Legolas looked at it and saw fathomless beauty.

"This world will never lose its magnificence," said Legolas.

"No, it will not," replied Aragorn, not quite sure why he was agreeing.

The elven prince offered his friend a warm, genuine smile that lightened the touch of the cold. "After all, what is magnificent does not simply taper off and whither. Worlds do not perish, not truly. Neither do kings."

With that, Legolas gained Aragorn's rapt attention, and they stood face to face for a moment; only the frosty air hovered between them. Who knows what words passed between them in their minds...who knows what can pass between strongholds of love and memory and companionship...

The snow was beginning to cease its fall. Only the cold remained.

"Come inside, Estel," whispered Legolas. "Do not linger out here. There is only loneliness; only cold. There is something far more meaningful waiting for you beyond this."

The elf held out an intricate white crown that had been left unceremoniously on the throne. He placed it into the king's numb hands.

Aragorn could not summon an answer. As he followed Legolas back across the courtyard, treading across a solitary set of footprints that had been slightly filled in by snowfall, his eyes focused on the tree of Gondor. When he passed by it, his fingers brushed against the leaves.

There was green beneath the white. The tree of kings did not die in the winter.

When Aragorn re-entered the place he had come to call home, it was as though the world came to life again, and even a heart as heavy as his was susceptible to the laughter, to the joy of welcoming back old friends. As he began to pass through the crowds, Legolas and Gimli flanked him, just as they had always done in his memories.

They stood by him, even though he would soon be gone; and now, Aragorn was beginning to understand that they stood by him _because _he would soon be gone. Friendship and love were not so easily discarded. When friends were lost, one by one, their departure would only serve as a limit to how much time they and other friends could interact in love; it never limited the amount of love the truest friends come to share. Aragorn was stunned to realize how much depth there was in _this _reality. He supposed there had not truly been any depth in the cold world outside; it was only harsh, bitter, and lonely.

His spirits returning, Aragorn let Legolas lead him further through the crowd. It was then that he heard the sound that filled his heart with so much joy and love that it was nearly painful: the laughter of his children. His eldest child and only son, Eldarion, was grown, but his younger daughters still retained youthful innocence. He knelt and let the softness of their bodies fall against his own.

Legolas had been right.

Before they sailed from the western shore, Elladan and Elrohir had been fond of telling their mortal brother that elves were rarely wrong.

Aragorn stood. He would remember in the years to come how, at that moment, he smiled. In a way, he was remembering how to smile. He was content to know that for this brief instant, his dearest friends were at his side, and the children who meant more to him than all the far reaches of Middle Earth were crowded around him, the youngest two clinging to his hands. It would soon pass into memory, but it was a joyous thing all the same. Memories are not all darkness.

The crowd before him began to part, and Aragorn looked up. An array of familiar faces lined the throne room, breathing life into the kingly statues that surrounded them and the solidity of the marble. He felt his breath come steadily for a moment before his gaze rested on the face in the center of the divide; at that point, his breath caught in his throat.

Arwen was there—his wife, his only love, undimmed and unblemished through the passing of ages. She walked into his arms and they stared deeply into one another, wishing that this single moment would never come to completion.

Her eyes and embrace were warm. They alone were enough to lift the chill on his skin, the last stain of the winter night.

THE END


End file.
